Bereft
by writergirl2003
Summary: The marks on his face are beginning to heal, the ones she left on him while leaving his basement. He's spent the time he's been given thinking of ways to punish her for murdering the child. The thought consumes him now like never before.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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He stands in the darkness, watching Lana as she emerges from the infirmary. He has managed to stay out of sight for nearly two months now, with the help of Sister Mary Eunice, and he has watched her come and go from this place on a weekly basis. He knows the way she travels here from her cell, and the path she takes to get back to what she thinks is her safety. He sees the way she glances around her whenever she's not locked into her room, and he recognizes that look in her eyes. She tries to pass it off as hatred, revulsion, but he knows the truth. It's fear, nothing less.

The marks on his face are beginning to heal, the ones she left on him while leaving his basement. He's spent the time he's been given thinking of ways to punish her for murdering the child. The thought consumes him now like never before.

He never wanted to hurt her; he told her that over and over again, but she didn't believe him. She never stopped running from him. She always wanted to be one step ahead of him, thinking that she might have the upper hand if she could anticipate his next move. She didn't know that he was always watching, always _two_ steps ahead of her next move.

He didn't want to hurt her then, when she'd been in his basement. Even when he'd asked her how she wanted to die, he asked her because he _wanted_ her to have a choice. He wanted her to choose the less painful option because he cared about her. Maybe, in his own way, he had even loved her.

But all of that has changed. Now, he wants to hurt her. It is now his goal to harm her. He wants to make her suffer and pay for what she's done to their child; _his _child. The way she unfurled that coat hanger and inserted it between her thighs, puncturing the protective sac that held their child's life was something that he has no mercy for. Watching the blood as it flowed from between her legs. He could practically hear her laughing as she wiped it from the floor, cleaning away _his _DNA, his genetics, his very being.

To think of where his child might be now, in a garbage dump somewhere, buried beneath mounds of trash, it makes him sick. He spent so many nights thinking about it, lamenting over the fact that it was gone; the living thing that he had created within her was no more. She had taken it away from him. With that back-alley abortion she had deprived him of the one thing that he had craved most in his life; unconditional love.

He follows her now in the dimly lit hallways, the screams of other patients echoing to hide the nearly silent footsteps he makes in her shadow. She does not know he is behind her, and that's the point of tonight. He's been watching and waiting for the perfect time to approach her, and he knows her schedule forward and back. When she leaves the infirmary, she doesn't go to the cafeteria for dinner. Instead she goes back to her room to rest. He knows this, and so now he trails her down the hallway, waiting for her to enter and shut the door behind her.

He stands, waiting for the right moment to enter her room. He wants to be logical about this, and he thinks that in fact, considering the situation, he is thinking quite logically. She killed his child. Any rational human being would condemn her to the same death. Though he would be the first to admit, it is not without a tear being shed that he has decided her fate. He had so much hope for her before he had taken her from here the first time. And then, in his basement, she had cried and called him her baby. He had seen the love in her eyes.

And when he had been inside of her-it was marvelous. He felt her all around him, her walls gripping him as he pushed deeper, crying out not merely because of the pleasure he was feeling but because of the _love_. He had emptied himself inside of her, he had allowed her to recieve that gift from him, yet she hadn't been happy. That's when it had all started to go wrong.

That very night, she had left him. Hit him in the face with the very same framed picture he had provided just for her, just to make her feel more at home. And she was gone. He would be the first to admit that he cried about it later that night. The house felt so empty without her. But then he'd heard about her on the radio, and he'd come back to Briarcliff. Part of him had wondered if she might be happy to see him. Things had escalated quickly.

But that is behind him now. She is no longer his mother, or the mother of his child. She is no better than him. In fact, she is worse. She killed a child; _their_ child, and that is something that he would never be capable of.

He decides that he has waited long enough to follow behind her and enter her cell. He knows she will scream when she sees him, but there is a rag in his pocket and a tiny bottle of chloroform that will serve him well to disable her until he has prepared her for what must be done.

He slips down the hallway, hesitates for only a moment outside her door and opens it quietly. Even in the darkness of the room, he sees her curled onto her bed, facing away from him. As silently as is possible with the groaning asylum doors, he slips it shut behind him.

The noise alerts her, however, and she turns quickly, her face contorting into fear at the sight of him. For a moment, this alarms him because he's never wanted to make her feel that way, but then he remembers his purpose tonight. Tonight is all about fear. Fear and revenge. The first shriek pierces through the air before he's crossed the room to her, and the loud noise makes him angry. He hates loud noises, he always has. He jumps on her, shoving the chloroform soaked rag into her mouth before she finds the strength to fight him. The element of surprise works well for him, and he feels her going limp in his arms within a matter of seconds.

She is totally relaxed in his arms; completely at his disposal, and he takes a moment to appreciate the scenario. It could have been so easy if she would have allowed him to hold her like this when she was awake. If she hadn't decided to fight back at his house, he could have gently stroked his fingertips over her skin and hair, promising her that everything would be okay and that he wouldn't hurt her. It's too late for those promises now.

By the time her head begins lolling and her eyes flutter open slowly, he's already restrained her. It takes her a moment to realize what's happening; her eyes are glazed and far off and he wonders if she is daydreaming that she's somewhere else. Perhaps she is back in her home with that Wendy she talked so much about. Maybe she is at work. Either way, she's definitely not in this moment. He'll need to change that.

"Lana," he says her voice quietly, not because he's afraid anyone will hear him. Sister Mary Eunice has ensured his privacy tonight. No, he says her name quietly because he has no reason to raise his voice. He uses his hand to smack her cheek lightly. "Lana." Her name comes out like a tune this time, and the recognition flashes in her eyes briefly. He sees that she's beginning to come around.

Moving away from her bedside, he steps to a side table and unrolls a cloth containing the equipment he will need for tonight. A scalpel, a straight razor, a pair of surgical scissors. He takes the items out one by one, studying them for a moment before placing them on the table. How desperately he wishes he could have that wire hanger with which she penetrated herself. It would be so ironic to use it on her now, after everything. After she scraped her insides with it, killing their baby, and then held it against his throat, his unborn child's DNA still fresh on the metal tip.

He hums a tune softly to himself as he organizes his tools. He glances back at Lana, and she's no longer anywhere but here. Her eyes are wide in terror, hands and feet secured to the bed by the very safety of the bindings she so longed for when she was in his basement. She's trying to speak against the gag in her mouth, but it's not time for that yet. She'll have her chance.

"Lana," he says her name, though this time his tone is conversational. "Good, you're awake." He turns around to look at her, and she is staring at the bindings on her wrists, her eyes wide and already full of tears. She tests them cautiously, tugging just enough to ensure that she is, indeed, bound and gagged. She makes a muffled cry behind her gag and he smirks at her.

"No key this time," he tells her, "Wrists and ankles. I've learned my lesson."

He isn't sure what to do first; the possibilites are endless, but he doesn't want to rush. He's been thinking about this for weeks now and he wants to take his time, especially with the build-up.

"I've brought some supplies with me," he tells her, showing her the gleaming tips of his tools. He enjoys watching the way her body inadvertantly pulls away from them, her breath increasing in fervor. He can't suppress the childish chuckle that escapes from him as he touches the tip of the scalpel to his finger. It's quite sharp, he's made sure of that.

He knows she's watching, though she wishes she could turn her eyes away. She's wondering what exactly he plans to do with those tools, but it won't be long before she knows.

"You know," he begins, "at first, I was overcome with grief. Thinking about how you murdered our child. It-" he finds his breath catching and takes a moment to compose himself, "It was almost too much for me to stand." He feels a sob building in his throat and sighs deeply. To distract himself, he picks up the scalpel and begins to pace slowly.

"So, I started thinking. How could I ease this pain? What could I do to ensure that no one else ever goes through what I went through with you?"

He sees her eyes widen with fear, her head shaking slightly. She's frightened now, and he likes that.

"And then, it hit me." He perches on the edge of her bed. "Like a freight train." He looks up at her. Silent tears are slipping down her cheeks and she's trying to talk around her gag, but she is unable to. "You took my child," he can barely find the words to speak, and brings a hand to his mouth, knuckles against lips. It takes him a moment to compose himself but he finds the words. "So now, I'm going to take your uterus."

He hears her shrieking behind the gag, and she is flailing desperately now, trying to break free of her ties. It's no use, of course, so he doesn't bother commanding her to stop. Instead, he allows her to thrash about while he goes on preparing himself for surgery.

He slips on a pair of thin medical gloves, because honestly, he doesn't care much for blood. It's warm, yes, but the consistency doesn't do much for him and its act of leaving the body causes the skin to pale in such a way that he can't help but remember the first time he saw that woman, his mother, in his anatomy lab. It hurts like the memory of a broken heart, so he prefers not to come into much contact with it.

He places the scalpel on the supply cloth he's bought, because he's not quite ready to make his first incision. He's been a doctor long enough to know how surgery works. He picks up the pair of scissors and approaches her again. She shakes her head furiously, mumbling desperately behind the gag. She wants him to remove it, and he will, but not yet.

He uses one hand to pull up her gown, revealing her underwear and thighs. Her lower body jerks away from him as she is revealed to him, but he merely smirks. He grips the scissors with one hand and uses the other to lift the waist band of her asylum-issued underwear, using the blades to slice through the thin fabric, pulling the tattered shreds off of her.

She sucks her breath in in a sharp gasp and tries desperately to pull her legs together, but to no avail. He grasps one of her knees and pulls it away from the other, keeping her spread-eagled. She's starting to sob behind her gag now and it makes him angry.

"Keep your legs apart or I'll cut them off," he tells her sharply, and he can tell she's not sure what to believe. She continues to sob, but her thighs, still trembling, fall apart. He steps between them and then kneels awkwardly, placing himself at eye level with the lower half of her body. He can see the that she is quivering, and he assumes it is with fear. He hears her muffled pleas and ignores them. "I suggest you stay as still as possible, Lana. The slightest slip of my hand and you could bleed to death before you're even numb from the pain."

He presses the edge of the razor to her skin, at the line just above where her pubic hair begins. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been in medical school; he remembers that the first step of preparation prior to performing a successful surgery is shaving the area to be operated on. He presses the razor against skin, skimming it against the soft white flesh that normally hides beneath her underwear. The hair is short already, but it is coarse, and he much prefers her skin to be smooth, just as it was in his basement. He'd shaved her there, as well, just before they'd been intimate. She'd cried the entire way through, but he'd relished in the act then, just as he does now. The extra time had been worth it; his body as it moved against the smooth, hairless area had added levels of pleasure to what had already been pure ecstasy.

He is careful with his hand, making sure not to knick the area as the razor slides across her skin. It won't do to have her skin marred before the surgery.

When at last he feels that he has finished, he steps back, holds her legs apart, and considers his work. He has done well. The skin looks pink and new. He moves to his satchel of tools, replacing the razor and reaching for the scalpel.

He turns to Lana again, and her eyes are squeezed shut. She holds her head against the bed, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her face is red and swollen, but her legs are still apart. She realizes at this point, _finally_, after all this time, that resistance is futile. She is giving into him. This should make him happy, but it irritates him. He suddenly is angry, that he's chased her to this point and she has given in so quickly. He had hoped to have more fun with her before she came to terms with her fate.

He acts quickly and without thinking, which is something that he rarely does, when he steps to her and pulls the gag from her mouth. He needs some sort of reaction from her before he can fully enjoy himself and this act of revenge.

As soon as the gag is pulled from her mouth, she's gasping for breath and crying out mumbled words that it takes him a moment to comprehend.

"It's alive, it's alive," she gasps, shaking her head furiously, "not dead, it's not..."

He narrows his gaze at her, clenching his teeth.

"What are you talking about?" His voice is barely above a whisper. He tries not to respond to her, but she is like a magnet, pulling him in, even now.

"The baby," she sobs, "I tried, but it didn't work. It's still there..."

Her words infuriate him. He feels his face growing hot with rage, and without considering his actions he smacks her hard across the face, stunning her into a temporary silence.

"Shut up!" He screams the words at her, "You shut your mouth, you lying bitch!"

He begins to pace quickly now, grabbing for the scalpel and glancing at her just long enough to see a vaguely hand-shaped welt appearing on the side of her cheek. He is unsure now, and he grows angrier. She has thrown off his plan. He doesn't believe her, but-what if? Is there a chance his child could still be growing inside of her? He can't go through with this now, not until he's proven her wrong. But there's no way he can-

"Prove it," he demands to her, his voice sharp with indignation.

She looks up at him, her mouth open as she attempts to steady her breathing. She shakes her head slightly, not understanding him.

"What do you-"

"I want you to prove it," he hisses at her, gripping the scalpel. He's beginning to sweat. He can't progress until he is sure. He can't imagine opening her up and finding his own under-developed child inside of her. The effects would be scarring.

Her eyes search his desperately, and he looks away from her. He can hardly stand to be in the same room as her right now.

"Touch me," her voice is barely a whisper from across the room. He turns to her, his eyes burning with tears. He wipes angrily at them with the back of his arm and shakes his head. "Feel my stomach, you'll have to. I want you to." Her voice is barely a whimper.

He doesn't want to get any closer to her, but the thought of his child being inside of her is too much to stand. He moves closer, slowly, and hesitates for a moment. Her gown is still slightly askew on her frame, revealing her nether regions and the base of her stomach.

He doesn't trust her, but he raises the edge of the gown, pushing it back on her stomach, revealing her from the chest down. He studies her for a moment, remembering the way her skin felt and looked while she was his captive. Her stomach had been flat and soft, he remembered that part. Her flesh had been pale and her complexion dull.

As he stands so near to her now, he sees that these things have changed. Her skin is no longer so lifeless. It has a luster to it now that he can't remember seeing before. Her breasts are larger beneath the gown and her hip bones less noticeable.

Slowly, with all the caution of a man who has known nothing but pain, his hands reach out to touch her. They find contact at the base of her navel, and his fingers trace the slight swell of her abdomen.

"I visit the infirmary every week," she attempts to speak to him, to distract him from his minstrations. Of course he hears her, but he doesn't allow her to know that. He is overwhelmed by the feel of her skin. "Every week Sister Mary Eunice schedules an appointment for the baby."

His fingers test the skin gently, and he is surprised how firm it is. It is stretched across her abdomen, rising in an incline to just beneath her ribs, where it flattens once again. His hands trace the area, confirming to him that this is not the same stomach she possessed when she was with him. Her nightgowns hung flat on her belly then, but not now. To test his theory, he pulls her gown down for just a moment, and sure enough, it hugs the soft curve of her belly.

He feels an overwhelming joy rising in him, his hands still pressed to her stomach. She's beginning to squirm now, and he is sure she's hoping he'll leave her, now that she's proven her point. But he has no intention of leaving.

"My God," he whispers the words into the darkness of the room. Lana looks to him, waiting to be acknowledged, but he doesn't see her face. He sees only her glorious belly, swollen and growing every moment. Practically pulsing with the life that he created. His child is alive.

As if on cue, he feels a flutter beneath his fingertips, and one glance at Lana's grimace tells him that he isn't imagining it. It's the softest yet strongest movement he's ever felt. He can't stop the smile from pressing across his lips, his eyes welling with tears again, though this time from joy. It is a miracle. The miracle of life. Within Lana.

It isn't until this moment that he realizes the scalpel has slid from his fingers and onto the floor. He can't possibly perform the hysterectomy now. Not now. Not until after she has given birth to this child. To his child. After the baby has been safely removed from her, he will take his revenge. He will mutilate her, even murder her.

But tonight, he has a child to consider. And right now, that child needs its mother.


	2. Chapter 2

This story wasn't intended to be more than a one-shot, but there were several expressed opinions that I should continue it, so I've decided to make it a three-part story.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays!

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In the months since his encounter with Lana and the still-growing child, he has ensured his constant presence at the asylum. It will not do to miss a single moment of his child's glorious incubation period. Despite the fatigue in her eyes, he sees the glow of her skin and the shine in her hair. Her body is responding amazingly to the pregnancy, despite the negative emotional reaction she has undergone. She is no longer expected to take the medication that her former doctor prescribed for her. He is now the sole provider of her psychiatric needs.

He has worked with Sister Mary Eunice to see that Lana gets the best care during her pregnancy. Her cell has been relocated to another wing of the asylum, where the sunlight is able to filter more directly in through the bars. He hopes she is taking advantage of the opportunity to soak up the vitamin D. There is a dangerous lack of natural light in the asylum, which he knows could have an adverse effect on the fetus.

As difficult as it is for him, he cannot attend her infirmary visits on a regular basis. He was able to stay with her at one appointment under the guise that he was concerned about the effects the psychiatric drugs were having on the unborn child. Of course, he pretended the child wasn't his, that he was simply concerned as a doctor, not a father. Denying his child had been extremely difficult for him, and he'd spent all of the day in his office in a mixture of self-loathing and self-pity.

That day, however, had been the first time he had glimpsed the future. A rapidly blinking heartbeat signified the proof of life he'd hoped for so desperately. He had managed to compose himself for the remainder of the appointment, but upon entering his office, he fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his face and he silently thanked God over and over again, his child was alive. From that moment on, the child's well-being became his sole purpose for living, which meant Lana's health was priority number one.

He sees her now, slumping on a sagging chair cushion in the common room. Her head is drooping, her long, dark hair hanging in her face. More than anything he wants to go to her, kneel, and place his hands on her stomach. He wants to kiss the taut skin that is currently protecting his child from the cruelty of the outside world. But his time will come.

Sister Mary Eunice parades around the room with an exuberant smile on her face, talking cheerily and calling Lana's name to ensure she is emotionally present now. She has been talking about this baby shower for weeks now, and has gone out of her way to ensure that this child's arrival is celebrated. She has used cloth from the patients whom are unable to control their own bladders, folding it and using safety pins to simulate the diaper of an infant. They are hung lackadaisically throughout the common room, along with leftover streamers from the Christmas celebration last December.

Lana, as expected, is resistant to the idea of celebrating her child's birth. She does not move from her place in the chair despite the false cheer in the Sister's voice and the request to partake in the activities she has planned. She looks up only to confirm that she is, indeed, still in this place, and he sees the defeat in her blank eyes.

And then, in the midst of what is considered a Briarcliff celebration, Lana's eyes are no longer empty. They are filled suddenly with disbelief and confusion. He sees this happen as he watches her, and perhaps without realizing it, her hand presses to her swollen abdomen. Sister Mary Eunice does not see her pained actions, and it takes Oliver just a moment to collect himself before rushing over to her.

She is surprised to see him, though she should not be, and the horror flashes briefly in her eyes for just a moment. It is quickly replaced by pain and a grimace.

"What's happening?" He demands suddenly, not quite sure what to do with his hands in the moment. He sees her try to speak, but the words that come out are slurred and quiet.

"Pain..." she gasps finally, "it hurts..." Her fingers are pressing at the base of her belly, and without taking a moment to consider what the other people in the common room might think, his fingers replace hers. He looks to her face, which has gone pale, and feels the panic rising in his throat. He attempts to call out for help before he realizes that there is no one to help. He is a doctor and also the child's father. The responsibility of help falls to him.

"You've got to calm down, Lana," he tells her harshly, because he knows that the more excited she becomes, the higher the baby's heart rate and blood pressure will rise. His concern is not her, at this moment, but the child inside of her. His mind is only focused on preserving the child's life.

"I need to get you to the infirmary," he says quickly, and he sees the relief flash in her eyes. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts before he speaks again, "No. Not the infirmary. I can't have you there. Your room."

"I need a doctor..." she wheezes the words, and he's already pulling her to her feet. "Oliver, please..."

"I am a doctor," he hisses at her, feeling the sting in his heart at the thought of her not trusting him to perform basic medical duties. If there is anyone in the world she should trust with the life of their child, it is him.

"Excuse me!" Sister Mary Eunice calls the words as she sees him helping Lana to her feet. "This celebration is not over!"

He ignores her as he guides Lana from the common room. She is grasping his arm for support, her fingernails digging into his skin, most likely reacting to the ache inside of her, but the pain is nothing to him. He is concerned only with the life Lana is carrying, and any other sensation at the moment is nothing but a brief wind, passing through without so much as a reaction from him.

She is whimpering as he drags her down the dark hallways and back to her cell. Tears are beginning to glisten on her cheeks and she's asking for the same thing, over and over. "A doctor. Please call a doctor... something's not right."

The fact that she seems to forget that he attended medical school, just as any other doctor, only infuriates him further, and he clenches his teeth as they approach her door. He pushes it open and forces her inside.

He tries to help her onto the bed gently, but she collapses on the dingy mattress, the first real scream of pain bursting from her lungs, her head thrown back and eyes closed.

His heart rate is increasing, and he paces the room briefly, watching as her legs fall apart, her head falls back, and she begins to tremble. He moves towards her, attempting to calm his nervous hands as he reaches for the hem of her gown. He pulls it back and is unable to contain his deep gasp as he sees the blood that has already begun collecting in her white underwear.

"Dear God, Lana, what have you done?" His hands thread into his hair, his mouth open in a mixture of surprise and disgust. She is writhing upon the bed now, her breath coming out in sobs as her thin fingers clutch at the bed sheets. "What have you done?" It's all he can do to repeat the words, watching in horror as the blood continues to flow from her. It's starting to trickle down her legs and he goes to reach out for her before he realizes the _blood_ is everywhere, and he pulls away. He can barely think now because her screaming is so loud and God, he can't touch her, she's dying, it's all he can think, and his child is dying too, and this is _all her fucking fault_.

He wants to kill her right now, at this very instant, and his hands clench into fists at the thought of them being around her neck. Watching her kick and struggle, her face bloating and the blood rushing to her head as she bleeds out from between her legs and her lungs search desperately for the oxygen he will deprive her of. As his poor, dead child remains inside her.

She keeps screaming and he keeps thinking of reasons to murder her right now, in this instant, and the voices are getting louder and louder in his head and he _can't fucking stand it anymore_ because _she_ is the reason his child is dying again and he goes to move toward her, his hands trembling with rage and hatred for everything that she is and he's going to do it, he's going to kill her and the baby is already dead and he's so confused but through his cloud of confusion he knows that the only thing that can rectify any of this pain is knowing she's dead too and he's going to curl his fingers around her neck and-

Lana's cell door bursts open and Sister Mary Eunice rushes in, trailed by Dr. Arden. There is a commotion among the room and he thinks his fingers are around Lana's neck, that they've caught him in the process of taking her life, but he's still several steps away from her. Sister Mary Eunice is speaking quickly, barking orders at Dr. Arden, who is already yelling for the nurses to bring him a gurney. He feels the hot tears against his face and drags an arm over his eyes, his heart still racing.

He is unable to speak, but he realizes the voices weren't in his head at all; they were the voices of the doctor and the young nun in the hallway, echoing as their footsteps pounded up to the room. They've heard Lana screaming and have come to help her. His first reaction is to get them out of the room so that he can continue with her slow, agonizing death before he realizes that Sister Mary Eunice has a vested interest in his child and has most likely come to preserve its life, not the life of Lana.

The nurses come with the bed and Dr. Arden assists them in shifting Lana onto the gurney, her screams still echoing in the foul air. He watches the doctor plunge a needle into her bicep and within a matter of seconds she's fading, her screams quieting and her body going limp. She's being wheeled out of the room and he instinctively goes to follow but Sister Mary Eunice is suddenly in front of him, her presence blocking him from moving.

"Dr. Arden has the situation under control," she tells him, her eyes flashing dark as she stands before him. Her negative energy radiates over him, "You need to compose yourself, Oliver. God, look at you; you're a mess."

He remembers his mussed hair and the tears on his face. He's losing control of himself. This won't do. He must gather his emotions and be presentable. But there is still a pressing matter on his mind.

"The child..." he barely chokes out the words, "is it..."

"The child will be fine," the woman confirms, her voice dry, her dark eyes still focused on him. Her pink lips curve into a tiny smirk, eyes narrowing. "Now is the time to prepare yourself, Oliver. You're about to become a father."


	3. Chapter 3

Here it is: part 3 of 3!

I own nothing but my own sick and twisted imagination.

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The room is filled with the pungent smell of copper; the blood and amniotic fluid that has soaked through the sheets and padding of the hospital bed overwhelms him now and he covers his mouth with a hand to keep himself from gagging. The smell infiltrates his lungs and burns his eyes and suddenly eerie silence replaces the screams of pain that so recently fell from Lana's lips.

When he glances to the small crowd gathered around Lana's lithe form and sees Dr. Arden's hands working between her legs, his breath catches in his throat. He doesn't realize he isn't breathing until the first wailing scream breaks the air and he sees the tiny form covered in blood and other body matter being lifted in Dr. Arden's hands. The screams of the child fill him with an emotion he can't quite place and he's stumbling forward, toward Lana and the infant that writhes in the doctor's hands.

Lana begins to groan again as the afterbirth begins its discharge and one of the two nurses rushes to collect the placenta. Dr. Arden watches them as they prepare the doctor's tools to cut the cord of blood and mucous that extends from the child's abdomen to the fetal membrane.

He can't move as he watches Dr. Arden sever the thick cord with surgical scissors and then pass the child to one of the attending nurses, who collects the newborn in her arms and begins to carry him-_is it a him?_- to the sink for its postnatal cleansing. And then he finds his feet. He is moving toward the nurse and approaches her quickly, his trembling hands extended in question, even as the filthy child screams and wiggles in the nurse's arms.

"Please," he can barely choke out the word and the nurse eyes him warily before turning to Dr. Arden for confirmation. He answers her silent question with a brief nod, and the newborn is being passed into his arms, his strong fingers cupping the child's head and bottom, lifting it to his chest. He suddenly no longer minds the smell of the blood or the mucus left on the child from being inside of Lana. His eyes run the length of the small body, its warm, pink skin that he sees beneath the mess on the surface. Ten tiny fingers, ten small toes. He counts each of them one-by-one, just to be sure. And between two little legs, the proof that Lana has given birth to his son.

The child howls in his hands and he sees Lana from the corner of his eye, shifting in the bed, her head lolling towards the sound of the screams.

"No," she breathes the word, her voice coarse from the screams released during birth. "No, don't let him hold it, don't..."

Her pleas don't go unnoticed and one of the nurses moves to her aid while the other takes the child from his hands and he is left standing, staring at the traces of blood and liquids on his hands. His fingers curl into his palm as he watches the nurse clean the baby carefully before diapering him and wrapping him in a small white blanket.

There is something about seeing his son here, in this environment, that makes him hate himself and what he's done. His child, breathing this foul air, wrapped in blankets that belong on the beds of insane patients. His anger at himself doesn't last, though, when he hears Lana whimpering from the bed. This isn't his fault at all, it's hers; she was at his home. The child could have come into the world welcomed by the sweet sounds and smells of a loving home. Her escape has changed all of that, and now here they are; his newborn son being held by the same hands that changes the soiled diapers of adults. This makes him angry, but his thoughts are shattered by the shrill cries of the hungry child.

He wants to stay and watch each breath his son takes, he doesn't want to miss a minute of his already burgeoning life, and they're already preparing Lana to be taken back to the infirmary; he knows that this whispered chance of privacy won't happen again.

He moves to the sink where he washes his hands quickly, turning to see the nurse as she coddles the child, patting his bottom and bouncing him gently to quiet the piercing cries. He hurries to the nurse, heart racing as his eyes fall over his child again.

"The child should be with his mother," he tells the young nurse, who looks up at him with wide eyes.

"Oh. Dr. Thredson, she says that she doesn't want to hold him, so I-"

"She's just been through a few hours of very intense labor," he responds quickly, "she may be a little delirious. As Miss Winters' primary mental health physician, I can assure you that these first few moments after birth are most vital to establishing a maternal bond, which benefits both mother and child."

Her blue eyes narrow in confusion, still holding the child. She looks so young, her skin looks so soft and smooth. Perhaps in a different situation, he might be more interested in her. Her skin looks like it would stretch nicely while retaining its luster.

"I thought she was giving him up for adoption?" She asks, though he can tell that her resolve is already fading.

"Miss Winters is undecided as of yet concerning the child's fate," he tells her, "though I think that decision is to be left in the hands of someone a little more capable than a young nun, don't you?"

It is clear that his words throw her off and she stutters for a moment.

"B-but... Sister Mary Eunice told us that we-"

"Sister Mary Eunice isn't the doctor here, Sister," he says quietly to her. She is obviously intimidated by him, or perhaps it is a mixture of intimidation and attraction. She nods quickly, and glances toward Lana who is lying with her head back against the pillow. She looks again toward him and he nods.

Slowly, she walks with the now-quiet child and approaches Lana.

"Miss Winters?" She asks, her voice so small and soft that she sounds like a child herself. "Would you like to hold your baby?"

Lana looks up to them, her eyes barely brushing the child before moving on to stare at him.

"I don't want him here..." she whispers to the young nun, "Please just take him out."

"Lana," he says, his voice calm and smooth, "I think you should hold the child." It kills him not to say _our_ child.

She stares at him, her face beaded with sweat and eyes full of fatigue.

"Excuse me," he says to the young nun, "May I have a few moments alone with my patient?"

The young nun hesitates for a moment before glancing around and beginning to the door.

"Sister," his voice calls after her, and she turns.

"Yes, Dr. Thredson?"

"Leave the baby, please." His words are soft, but final.

"I don't think-"

"Once again, Sister, it's not up to you. Lana is this child's mother. She needs to have a private moment with him before she makes a decision that's going to affect the rest of his life. Surely you wouldn't disagree with that."

His words seem to convince her and she returns slowly, sliding the child into his waiting arms. He cradles the infant as he watches her hurry from the room. He is alone with Lana and the baby, at long last.

"You haven't even looked at our son," he hisses to her quietly, the room silent aside from her soft breaths.

"He's not our son," she refuses to turn her head to the child, "this should have never happened."

"Oh, but it has," he perches on the bed, the child still in his arms. His eyes are now fixed on the infant and he is unable to look away. The baby's eyes are closed, his fingers curling as his mouth moves in a silent suckling motion. "It has happened, Lana. And we brought this child into the world. And now we have a responsibility to him."

"Him," she whispers the word, barely audible, but it does not go unnoticed. The tiniest of smirks press across his lips as he takes in the fact that she is recognizing his child. Their child. The baby is no longer an _it_ to her; it is now a _him._ It is now her son. And that is something that she will never be able to forget.

"Oh, it would be so easy for you to give him up, wouldn't it, Lana?" He coos at the child, his voice soft but tainted with spitefulness. "As long as you don't look at him, or hold him... or feed him." He traces his fingers down the silky newness of his son's cheek. "I'm not going to let that happen, of course. He's only a few minutes old. He deserves his mother's touch. Just as I did."

And though it is painful for the child to leave his arms, he is slipping the tightly wrapped bundle into her embrace despite her unwillingness. She tries to resist him but as soon as the infant leaves his arms her body takes hold of him in spite of herself. One hand slips under his fragile neck, the other under his bottom, and her eyes lock on him.

It's almost too much for Oliver to stand, and he feels the tears in his eyes. The baby is asleep but he is aware that he is in his mother's arms, that much he knows for certain. There is nothing in the world like the first time a mother holds her child, and despite the fact that her eyes are filled with pain and confusion, he knows the maternal bond is already beginning to form.

"Look at him," he whispers into her ear, careful not to alarm the sleeping infant. "He's the perfect combination of both of us. He has your nose, and my chin. My lips." Lana's eyes haven't moved from the child's tiny face, but his eyes move to watch her expression. "He's hungry, Lana. He needs to eat."

The words break her from her gaze and she turns to look at him, shaking her head slightly.

"No," she whispers the word, "I don't want to-"

"You're his mother," he is whispering, already slipping her gown from her shoulders and tugging it down in his attempt to expose her breasts. "It's your responsibility to feed him."

She can do little more than whimper her desperate resistance as he slides her gown from her chest, adjusting the baby, guiding him to her swollen breasts. Even now, as silent tears begin to cascade down her cheeks, she won't release the infant, he knows this. It is the motherly instinct in her to ensure that no harm comes to this child within her grasp.

The newborn begins to root for her nipple and finds it within a matter of seconds, suckling hungrily as he watches, smiling to himself. It is such a beautiful and overwhelming sight that he pauses to wipe his eyes, leaning in closer to share the moment with them. The jealousy inside him, that he can't be involved in this special moment, is nearly blinding. But this is just one of the many things that a child needs from its mother.

And that's when the realization fully hits him. This child, _his _child, is also Lana's child. He is minutes old, still pink and warm from being inside of her for those long months. His sustenance, his very _life_ depends on her at this moment. The warm milk flowing from her breasts will make him strong and healthy. This is something that simply no one else in the world is capable of providing for him.

The baby is still suckling, and Lana is still crying, but his mind is working. He knows now what he must do. All of his dreams of murder and revenge have faded. He has a child to worry about, and this child needs its mother to survive. He refuses to see his son raised in the system, never knowing who he is or where he belongs. Never knowing why his mother despised him so much that she abandoned him when he needed her the most. And now he knows that his child will never be in that situation. The child will have a mother and a father and will never have the need to ask why.

The next few days pass quickly and he makes sure to visit the child, whom he has begun to call Johnny, several times a day in the infirmary as Lana recovers. The baby is growing every day, his eyes just as dark as his mother's, and he has ensured that Lana is continuing to breast feed through strict orders from himself, Dr. Arden, and Sister Mary Eunice. The few times he sees her in her hospital bed, she is sore and exhausted, but the child is healthy, and that is all that matters.

It takes him nearly a week to make the proper arrangements, and Lana has remained in the infirmary. She has been refusing to eat regular meals and it has already begun taking a toll on her body. It is, then, not a moment too soon, that he appears one afternoon, the child already in his arms.

He sees the hatred in her eyes each time she looks at him, but it doesn't matter anymore. A young nurse, the same nurse from the night his son was born, appears from behind him with a cloth bag and approaches Lana.

"Miss Winters?" She asks, her voice still hesitant. "It's time."

"Time for what?" She asks, and he sees the dread in her eyes. Another feeding, she must suspect. Her body is weak and sore and she must have thought that her refusal to eat would drive them to formula-feed his child. The thought is preposterous.

"Miss Winters," she smiles softly, "you're going home."

It takes her a moment, and he sees relief flash in her eyes. Home. God, no, it must sound too good to be true. How he wishes he could be in her head at that moment, the gears turning as she attempts to process her sudden stroke of good luck.

"What? But, how, I-" she manages to stammer the words out, suddenly finding the strength to sit up in her bed, "I'm being released?"

The young nun nods as she begins to help Lana from the bed, already pulling Lana's clothes from home from the bag, spreading them on the mattress before encouraging her to raise her arms to slip out of her gown.

"I'm so happy for you," the young nun tells her sincerely, and he watches as Lana's breasts fall into view as the nun helps her change. They are heavy with milk and colostrum, full upon her chest, and he almost feels disgusted with himself for watching her before remembering that they are now the lifesource of his son, and he suddenly envies the infant for the inevitable closeness that breast-feeding provides. The memory of his own mouth on her nipple causes a sudden fire in his belly and he craves her touch. "Getting to go home with your family."

He sees the moment that her head tilts just slightly to the left, glaring up at the nun who is busily helping her slide her shirt on.

"Excuse me?" Lana asks, shaking her head, "My family?"

"Yeah," the nun smiles easily at her, shrugging. "You know, a handsome fiancée, a beautiful son... and to think that old Sister Jude had you locked up in here for being one of those homosexuals." She shook her head happily, "You sure have come a long way, Miss Winters."

"I don't..." her face is pale now and she's shaking her head, raising a hand to prevent the woman from helping her dress. "What are you saying? I don't have a fiancée."

"Oh, Miss Winters," the nun giggles softly, her smooth cheeks flushing pink, "You don't have to hide it anymore. Dr. Thredson told everyone already." She leaned in close to Lana, "You could do a lot worse!"

"Doctor..." the word is barely out of her mouth before he steps forward, cradling his son and smiling at Lana.

"Lana, it's okay," he speaks softly, lovingly. "Everything has already been taken care of."

"No," the word escapes her mouth desperately, "no, Sister, I'm not- I can't, you don't understand-"

"Lana," he carefully stoops next to her, looking into her eyes. The terror is obvious, and this fills him with unabated joy. "I resigned my position at Briarcliff. I told everyone the truth; about how we simply couldn't stand to hide our relationship any longer, so you came with me to my house. We got into an argument and you ended up back here. But now," he reaches out with one hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, "we're finally going home, to be together. All of us. A family."

The young nun sighs wistfully, packing the few things Lana has in her posession. His hand pauses on her cheek, which has gone cool and feels clammy under his fingers. He can feel her trembling.

"I think you'll find being a mother suits you," his voice is soft in her ear, fingers tracing her skin, "after all, you have _two_ little boys to take care of now, Mommy."


End file.
